About Tichaona

Tichaona Bright, Assertive, Caring, Semi-Unreconstructed The sister of Ifeoma Lover of Sankara Kono, natural Afrakan aesthetics and free-forming Who feels like a woman scorned (hell hath no fury) when it comes to colonialism, delight in being Earth born, and trepidation at thoughts of my son's future Who needs water like its lifeblood, comradely behavior and reciprocity; Who fears dying a stranger in a strange land, the death of revolutionary Afrakan culture and paper tigers who think they're the real thing Who gives wholehearted affection to those I love, a damn and the barrel of my pen Who would like to change the meek of the Earth into the conscious inheritors/caretakers of the Earth Who hopes that what goes up must come down without destroying the ground I softly tread upon Who lived a sad life until revolutionary winds blew my way Munhamo-Chinyelu

Are you keeping your eyes on the whirlwind?

(PRLog.Org) – (Brookline, MA) – Tichaona Chinyelu is a poet and author of In The Whirlwind and Still Living on My Feet. She has conducted many interviews which include Artist First and LTH Weekly Show. Tichaona’s poem Weaver Woman is featured on the main page online at Black Poetry. She is the CEO of Whirlwind Publishing. For further information visit www.inthewhirlwind.com

About Whirlwind Publishing

Whirlwind Publishing is Tichaona Chinyelu’s publishing company and has published two books of poetry which include In The Whirlwind and Still Living on My Feet. For further information visit http://www.inthewhirldwind.com

About In The Whirlwind

In the Whirlwind is a poetic storm that frees history from the cages of corruption and puts it in the hands of everyday people. Words are weaved into a new fashion statement that has nothing to do with runways but everything to do with projects!

In the Whirlwind is available at
- Amazon.com
- Authorsden.com
- Oncewritten.com
- Inthewhirlwind.com
- Authorsbookshop.com

Excerpt

    Weaver Woman

I weave words
like a west african market woman
selling you my vision, my mangoes, my papayas
even my coconuts.
My finished product can be held up to the sun
illuminated, made to shine.
The skins of my poems have been submerged in mud
then laid at the bottom of the baobob tree to dry like mudcloth.
The blood of my poems can be as dry as the sahara;
as wet as monsoons;
as cutting as a machete in the hands of the mau mau.

I weave blood into my words:
red blood, dried blood, young blood.
An oversaturation of blood decorates my words
makes them pulse red.
My words hang from trees
like the bitterest kind of strange fruit.
My words find the peruvian revolutionaries
murdered while hogtied
and then buried in criminal secrecy.
My words were inspired by Rigoberta Menchu.

I roots rock reggae with my words;
have them jamming to the heart beat rhythm
of the warmest music.
The fabric of my words is at its lightest
when they’re in the dancehall or the yard.
My words sweep over people
like the softest caribbean breezes.
My words will have you dreaming of blue skies
white sands and coral reefs

and while you’re dreaming
I weave black people into my words
and I am done.
My finished product can be held up to the sun
illuminated, made to shine.

About Still Living on my Feet

Still Living on my Feet is the follow up to Tichaona Chinyelu’s first book, In the Whirlwind, which was rooted in a sense of hard-hitting revolutionary black love. However, in this sophomore effort, Tichaona brings the revolutionary essence from deep within the trough of her Y chromosomes; lacing it with truths, humor and sisterly compassion. Still uncompromising, Tichaona’s overtly articulates the primacy of black women without negating their compliment, black men. Using a sentence she coined a while back; the line of my back needed straightening more than my hair, as her muse, Tichaona retraces the spiritual experience she had in her early twenties revolving around the grandmother she never met. Drawing on her desire to respond righteously, she encapsulated that experience of love and consciousness to produce the progressive, relevant and textured writings of Still Living on my Feet.

Still Living on my Feet is available at
lulu.com
authorsden.com
Inthewhirlwind.com
amazon.com

Excerpt

    Wanton Woman

They say ain’t no sunshine
between my legs
just a wet satanic pit.
The pains I took to inform them
my name isn’t Lilith,
first wife of Adam,
runaway bride,
semen stealer,
wife and mother of hundreds
of demons
dampened my ardor
and pushed them
out doors
where they discovered
a newfound proclivity
to call me bitch.

I reveled in my bed
and the passion it could produce
without affiliation
or affliction.
Like Sinead,
I was no man’s woman.
Like Renatta,
I fought for the sovereignty
of my space.

Vituperative, claimed repressed
into goodness women
and their hypocritical men
as they dragged me
and my medusa-attributed hair
into the court of public opinion.

Lilith, the judge called me
but I only answered to Ntozake:
she who has her own things.

Eve, biter of devilish apple, he screamed
but my reply was Assata:
she who struggles.

Margaret Garner, he howled
and I said yes, I deny you
the right to raise my children as slaves.

Unreconstructed pagan, he spat.
Both the sun and the moon are my church:
the sun because it is the promoter of life
and the moon because it controls the tides.
Unreconstructed?
My ancestors didn’t ask you to come for us.
Why should we construct ourselves to fit your reality?

Harlot! Whore! Slut!
I laughed. I’ve turned down more men
than I’ve embraced
and the ones I’ve turned down
are the ones leveling these charges
including you.

Adorned with my free woman accessories
and sense of the sacred feminine
I’ve rejected your imprisoning baubles
and religious rhetoric
for the sacrament of she.

To order copies of In The WhirlWind and Still Living on My Feet, please visit www.inthewhirlwind.com

In The WhirlWind
ISBN-10: 0978935500
ISBN-13: 978-0978935504
Price: $12.95

Still Living on my Feet
ISBN-10: 0978935519
ISBN-13: 978-0978935511
Price: $14.95

Nonsense Makes Sense

We tango sambo
Manifesting delicious
Delinquency to the tune
Of tito
Ditto machito & his afro-cubans
Plantation palpitations
Bandana fandango
Somber sambo
Santeria celia
Cruz middle passage
Memorizing meringue
Sherbro sho bro
Talk that talk
Tantalize romanticize
Defecate delinquencies
Until p diddy’s umbrella
Is eunichized

Colonial Colón
Original origami
Paper tigers like Swans, geishas, Gertrude
& Virginia
Shakespeare’s sister
In a room of her own
But I’da b well damned
If that be my destiny.

Isis Osiris
Sister brother
Wife husband
ashes spread across seven skies
And I, sis, come looking
Reunification rectification
Holy wholeness
Can’t flub it
Or fuck with it
Untouchable like beloved
Whole womb
Embraces total nut
And it’s on
Like donkey kong
Or king kong.
who ain’t got nuttin on me
Cept extended stomach
Moon round
Full and fecund
Digging the ground
For roots
Sooty black foots my only carriage
But divorce not marriage
That be how I do it do i
While you try to woo it
only to end up rueing it
behind some foolish shit

but that ain’t the end
as I extend into tomorrow
no sorrow
as I search the world round
for the proper noun
to give my seed

P.A.C vs my history
sobukwe no way
Dahomey da homey
Africa to america
Da homey
Get it on, Gat it on
get get gone
only grass seen
prison lawn

don 3 of 4
1st sankara
2nd kono
And yeah, fauna
Has his name
Nowhere near lame

And I reclaim my fame
Signing my true name
I, Sis, You, Bro, San, Son
Isis Osiris and Horus
True trinity.

©2006 Tichaona M. Chinyelu

Jazz Stanzas

Jazz Stanzas

The wolves may huff and puff
but they ain’t got nothing on
apple sized cheeks
that blew sounds just as sweet
as the juice.

It don’t mean a thing
if you don’t take the A train
and hear the lady from baltimore
with the sanitizing stench of bleach on her
from scrubbing those damn white steps.
From lady’s maid to lady day
from the whorehouse to
covering the waterfront
until finally
it was heroin, not her man
that had lady singing the blues.

A trumpeter walks in front of a horse
leading a perennial procession for you.
That’s the image that comes to mind
when I think of you.
Your smile derided.
Your character declared a caricature
but Ghana loved you.
You were pops to the world.

In a mining township
a hundred miles from Johannesburg
exposed to jazz, traditional music
and apartheid
a horn player was growing up.
In a jim-crow dominated township
it was designed to be impossible
to graze in the grass
but somehow
you did.

And now, it is said
we don’t love the music.
Our faces are not in the audiences
of those who carry it on.
Our dollars aren’t spent on it.
We have allowed it to leave
and because of that
it no longer belongs to us.

But this is simply not true.

© 2004 Tichaona Chinyelu

Ménage a Trois

Man: It was evil.
Woman: It was insidious.

Man/Woman (together): We each thought it was the other until it spoke to us
in our own voices and then we knew we had a vampire.

It flew at us like the past, made a mockery of the future we
wanted.

Man: Had me thinking she wasn’t the sky I flew in.

Woman: Had me thinking he wasn’t the rock I stood on.

Man/Woman (together): Had us thinking we were each other’s enemy.

Man: Loaded and cocked. My words were fists.

Woman: Stealth bomber. Appeared out of nowhere. Disappeared into pain.

Man: I lost my job.

Woman: I got a promotion.

Man: Attitude problems. I spoke a black man’s language.

Woman: There’s a time and a place. Mouths to feed.

Man/Woman: That’s when it bit.

Man: Damn mosquitoes…

Woman: …sucking our blood.

Man: I slapped at them.

Woman: I sprayed repellant.

Man/Woman: But it wasn’t mosquitoes. Our blood was being drained.
________________________________________________________

Vampire: The blood was rich. Full of love and life. They had no right to it.
I made it mine. Became big and strong. Starting eyeing the children.
Classic albatross.
_________________________________________________________

Man/Woman: We stood looking at the couple in the mirror.

Woman: Lean.

Man: Fighting lean.

Man: Fuck this shit.

Woman: My name’s not Kendra.

Man: You love me?

Woman: I love you.

Man: You ready?

Woman: I’m ready.

Weaver Woman

I weave words
like a west african market woman
selling you my vision, my mangoes, my papayas
even my coconuts.
My finished product can be held up to the sun
illuminated, made to shine.

The skins of my poems have been submerged in mud
then laid at the bottom of the baobob tree to dry
like mudcloth.
The blood of my poems can be as dry as the sahara
as wet as monsoons
as cutting as a machete in the hands of the mau mau.

I weave blood into my words:
red blood, dried blood, young blood.
An oversaturation of blood decorates my words
makes them pulse red.
My words hang from trees
like the bitterest kind of strange fruit.
My words find the peruvian revolutionaries
murdered while hogtied
and then buried in criminal secrecy.
My words were inspired by rigoberta menchu.

I roots rock reggae with my words
have them jamming to the heart beat rhythm
of the warmest music.
The fabric of my words is at its lightest
when they’re in the dancehall or the yard.
My words sweep over people
like the softest caribbean breezes.
My words will have you dreaming of blue skies
white sands and coral reefs

and while you’re dreaming
i weave black people into my words
and i am done.
My finished product can be held up to the sun
illuminated, made to shine.

© 2005 Tichaona Chinyelu